


the crown is out of sight (dying in the dark)

by kiira



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Gen, mmmm post ep-16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3528413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiira/pseuds/kiira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>once upon a time there lived a girl name clarke and she like dancing and going to parties and drawing, she was going to be a doctor or maybe a second grade teacher; once upon a time the girl named clarke was sentenced to paradise, they said.</p><p>once upon a time, the girl named clarke died burning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the crown is out of sight (dying in the dark)

You walk into the sky, armor heavy on your shoulders, heavy on tatters of innocence (it was burned out of you; you burned warriors where they stood and let children’s skin split and open). It’s so beautiful, Earth – you sometimes like to forget that it has killed everything you love.

The woods are quiet, (when you shut your eyes you can watch people fall to the ground, burning, burning, burning) so you keep them open, let the sunlight sprinkle on your skin, shadows on your hands.

You scream; you scream until your throat hurts and until you can taste red on your tongue, until your head feels like it’s buzzing and you still can’t drown out everything in your head, still can’t drown out Maya laid out like a sacrifice.

(Breaking down in tears feels too vulnerable; you don’t care, you don’t care, you don’t care.)

/

Once upon a time there lived a girl name Clarke and she like dancing and going to parties and drawing, she was going to be a doctor or maybe a second grade teacher; once upon a time the girl named Clarke was sentenced to paradise, they said.

Once upon a time, the girl named Clarke died burning.

/

It’s not until you’ve been walking for at least another hour that you realize you don’t know where you’re going: this is a brave new world and no one kind has come from it.

The path to Mount Weather is well worn, your starborn siblings know nothing of stealth and you can imagine Anya’s frustration at the paths marring the face of the forest (can remember how Anya’s blood stained your hands as you – no).

You’re there before you truly have thought it through: you killed an entire civilization and you stand at the doorway of their ruins, I’m sorry, you whisper, but the mountain is silent.

They’re all dead: they’re all dead and rotting, slumped on top of each other; children, parents, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and you lean over to throw up in the grass, knees buckling.

It’s easier to get in than it ever should have been (the front door just opens, twelve feet of steel protecting bodies), the hallways are dead empty quiet (you throw up again and whisper an apology to the family whose front door you messed up; they’re dead, Clarke, you remind yourself, and steady a hand on the wall.) Somehow, part of you thought that the bodies would have disappeared from the mess hall – that someone would have cleaned it up, would have straightened up the tables and meals and made it look as if everyone was out on an afternoon stroll.

Of course, they’re all still there (your head spins and you can’t really throw up anymore: dry heaving is as close as you can get).

The bodies are broken. They don’t look like people anymore and you think if you touch them they would crumble (these were people once, these were people, these were people, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry) and you know what you have to do.

Three hundred and fifty six people all curled in on themselves, skin red and open and torn. Three hundred and fifty six people (and you remember Lexa telling you that her people receive scars for each kill they make; your chest and shoulders would be littered with scars and scars and scars and stars).

You pull a tablecloth from a table and the plates and half eaten food clatter to the ground (loud; maybe they will wake up), disturbs the image of normality. Gently, you gather the woman closest to you into your arm, lay her in the tablecloth.

 _I’m sorry_ , you whisper, or think, or pray,  _may we meet again_ , and you carry her out into the open air. You’re going to have to dig, you realize, and quickly (night is falling, you do not know what lurks in these woods at night).

It takes almost two hours to dig a pit big enough; your arms ache, but you are alive and maybe this is some small punishment.

The woman’s skin sticks to the tablecloth as you roll her into it and, I’m so so sorry, you whisper again (to her, to yourself, to some girl who once existed).

You walk back into Mount Weather.

/

 _This is the sky_ , you whisper to a little boy with curly black hair,  _and sometimes it rains. I was surprised too_.

 _Once_ , _I thought I was the good guy_ , you say to an old woman whose face has burned off.

 _I never meant for you to die,_  you tell Maya, her eyes white and rolled back, _I’m sorry I attacked you that first day, I’m sorry I killed you in the end._

 _I’m sorry_ , you say again and again and again until your lips hurt, until your throat aches with the weight of it all, _I’m sorry._

/

Fox is in the mountain, and you know she died screaming (know she died in pain); you came too late and you lay her in with the rest of your victims, her head at an odd angle.

You wonder how close Raven was to dying; how close your mother was and you tuck a strand of Fox’s hair behind her ear.

 _I’m sorry_ , you tell her softly,  _may we meet again_.

/

The earth is soft over their bodies (you are barely eighteen and you have buried far too many); you drag four large stones over the grave (dirt smeared under your eyes, on your hands, blood and dirt and blood).

It’s easy to go back into Mount Weather, to take off Lexa’s armor and clean it carefully (Lexa: I’m sorry; Lexa: we’re much too young) before slipping it back over your head, tightening the straps around your arms and legs, the weight familiar and comforting.

It’s easy to steal a gun and enough ammo to last you a while, easy to steal a backpack and fill it up with water and knives (is it stealing if they’re all dead; is it stealing if you killed them all?) and you dare one last look in the mess hall before you leave.

It’s silent now: no sign of a massacre (a soccer ball lies still beside a table leg and you buried endless children today).

/

You sleep just inside the door; wake up before the sun rises, walk away from the mountain.

The sun rises and everything is burning.

**Author's Note:**

> [posts fic at almost midnight] yeah this is a good idea
> 
> come hang out @ laurelhollis.tumblr.com if you want to


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